All the king's horses and all the king's men
by hikachu
Summary: In the years that followed the end of his life and his rule, historians and writers would always remember King Griffith as an enlightened ruler who brought peace and prosperity to the country. AU in which Guts never left and fate is not preordained. Griffith/Guts.


**All the king's horses and all the king's men**

In the years that followed the end of his life and his rule, historians and writers would always remember King Griffith as an enlightened ruler who brought peace and prosperity to the country, enabling Midland's arts and culture to reach their peak.

Heroic accounts of victories in battle or tales of political prowess, however, had no space left for the portrait of a man who was fundamentally alone and could hardly take seriously the hypocrisies of life at court.

Only few among the men who had followed him since the days when he was just Griffith – terribly charismatic but nobody of importance – could sometimes read the things he hid behind a pleasant expression, and to only one man Griffith would always reveal all the thoughts, the feelings and the faces he couldn't allow others to see.

And this is why a certain episode that happened during the campaign against the northern tribes that were trying to invade Midland was eventually forgotten for what it was, and turned it into the moving tale of a magnanimous ruler caring for his commoner soldiers.

Nobody ever wrote of his eyes growing wide and the color draining from his face when he was told, Captain Guts is not lost somewhere, he was taken down and I saw it with my own eyes, because only Casca, who even then had been fighting at his side, could read him like that.

Nobody called the ruthlessness and the cruelty with which he ordered the absolute slaughter of all the enemy troops by their names. They simply became 'necessity' and 'a king doing his duty'. Even though Griffith had always ordered to spare those who surrendered.

Nobody ever described how he dashed blindly forward because his vision was blurred by tears he couldn't shed, wouldn't shed until he really knew that it was true, or how his thoughts had lost any coherence and rushed around in his head, going from _it will be alright_ to _it's all over_ and the sudden awareness that_ nothing is worth anything anymore_. Nobody could ever know, after all. Only Casca could imagine, and Judeau suspect something after a glance to her face.

Nobody added that, after the battle had ended, always graceful and controlled King Griffith almost fell from his horse in an uncharacteristically clumsy attempt to dismount as quickly as possible; that he threw his helmet away and that it was left to roll into a puddle of mud and blood as he ran towards the tent where the injured were being tended to and the dead – those who had either died on one of the makeshift beds or some friend had brought back from the battlefield – were left in wait of an appropriate burial.

Nobody ever wrote what happened after that, either, because no one was there to witness it.

And if there had, maybe that person would have called what followed a miracle, or something like it.

"Hey."

Guts' face was pale and covered in sweat. His grin was practically a grimace and it was clear that, despite his best efforts, he had no strength left to sit up.

"Judeau was here a moment ago. He ran out to find you, but judging from your face I guess he didn't."

Guts was alive. Barely, but alive.

Griffith blinked and felt his heart beat faster, blocking out the sound of his own thoughts. It was like he had forgotten how to talk or move.

"Heard you were acting like a madman," Guts' chest was heaving and his voice was low, strained but he wouldn't stop talking. Griffith wished he could find the words to tell him to stop and rest, but a part of him – childish, stupid – lacked the courage: as long as Guts talked, he could believe that he was sane and this was real.

"If you're looking for the guy that supposedly did me in, sorry, but I took him out myself," he laughed and it was weak and raucous. "No way I'd go down without taking as many bastards as possible with me."

It was then that Griffith let himself fall on the bed. He touched the tip of his fingers, still wrapped in leather and armor, to Guts' lips and murmured, "Yes. The entire right flank was taken down by you and your men. Truly, after all these years you are still my best soldier."

There was a long silence during which Guts tried to read Griffith's eyes but to no avail.

He considered saying something else to break the awkward atmosphere, but was cut off by Griffith's mouth, his teeth and his tongue. After a brief moment of surprise, Guts relaxed and let himself be kissed, too weak to do anything but touch Griffith's shoulder lightly—until a sharp pain drove him to push the other away, with much protest from his injured arm and shoulder.

"The fuck was that for," he spat out, feeling the blood from the tip of his tongue drip onto his lower lip with his fingers.

"It was to remind you. That it is natural for you to kill and even bleed in my name, but that I alone shall decide when and how you die."

Griffith's gaze was steely, his mouth a thin, hard line.

Guts blinked, once, twice. Then, another grimace-smile broke across his features.

"You're right," he said and raised a hand to Griffith's cheek. "But you know how I am—Good for nothin' except swinging a sword. I forget easily."

Griffith closed his eyes tightly and wrapped his hands around Guts' wrist and his palm, leaning into it. He didn't reply.

For what was left of the day and the whole night, Griffith didn't allow anyone to come close and changed Guts' bandages himself.

Outside, Judeau and Casca sat on a log, eyes fixed on something beyond the setting sun.

"I heard once," he began quietly. "The story of a great king from the ancient times. He was well-loved by his men and, undefeated, had conquered all the lands known to man at that time. But, when his dearest friend died—"

Casca frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but Judeau wouldn't let himself be interrupted. This, he thought, this was important.

"He grieved alone for days and wouldn't let anyone take the corpse away from him. The pyre was taller than a castle and it is said that from that point on, often the king found himself unable to differentiate between dream and reality, and that, ultimately, it was his grief that killed him only months later."

"Judeau!" Casca finally hissed.

"Do you remember that day, in winter, when Guts almost left?"

"Judeau," Casca hissed again—but she understood.

Judeau smiled, a bit sadly, a bit apologetically.

"It seems that the Queen and Midland will keep sleeping serenely at night for as long as they can forget that the King is also still only a man. It's amazing, isn't it," he added in what was little more than a whisper. "How much power a single man can hold in his grasp."

And Casca wondered, if only for a moment, whether he meant Griffith or—


End file.
